


Where All Roads Lead

by Strigimorphaes



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Ancient Rome, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hellenistic Religion, I did a lot of research on Roman food for this, Inn Keeper!Geoff, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Manipulative Ryan, Michael becoming Mogar, Military, Mogar, Priest!Gavin, Soldier!Michael, Superstition, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 16:56:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7395880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strigimorphaes/pseuds/Strigimorphaes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Geoff owns a tavern in Rome and Michael has too much free time. They fall in love - but soon Michael is drafted to protect the still unstable borders of the Republic. Far apart, they face a long and uncertain summer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where All Roads Lead

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tumblr user mogartrash's fic challenge.  
> The fic is (purposefully vaguely) set during the middle/late part of the Republic, sort of around the 220s BC. The poetry excerpts are not all from this time period, although they *are* all from Roman poets and writers. I find Catullus in particular very fitting just because he also writes very vulgar things.  
> I was surprised to learn that the woodpecker was associated with Mars :P

 

**I.**

_"O Moon, dwell longer over our first union._  
_And you, Sun, who draw out summer fires,_ _  
Cut short the journey of the light that's still to linger..."_

                  - Propertius, _Elegies_

Michael is drawn to the tavern because of the light. He moves towards it like a skittish moth, pausing to press his hands against the cold walls lining the narrow street. Fingers trace the crude etchings left by drunken stragglers and schoolboys: Names, rumors and maps lead the visitor further on towards whore-houses and dark alleys.

Light spills from tiny window onto the street, and Michael finally approaches the door. The scent of wine is strong even in the doorway, and inside, it mixes with notes of lavish spices and wood. He inhales the familiar air, glad to be back where dice rattle against wooden tables and men around him drink and laugh. The frescoes on the walls are in bright colours still, not yet worn by time or tinted by the smoke of the brazier. But for Michael, the most important feature of the place is its owner.

Their eyes meet, and Geoff turns towards him. The flames behind him colour him all gold and orange. Tattoos wind their way from relaxed shoulders to the hands mixing concentrate and water into wine. The first time they met, Michael had flinched away, wondering if the markings made Geoff a slave or a mercenary.

("What," Geoff had asked, "you're scared?"

"No, I just-"

"I get those looks often. I assure you, I'm both free _and_ sane. What'll it be?")

Now, Michael leans on the bar desk and watches as Geoff wordlessly pours him a cup. His motions are quick and confident, a reminder that he has done this a hundred times over. And it feels like it must also have been a hundred times that Michael has admired those arms and the glow in his eyes, the softness of his touch when he takes the clayware in his hands...

A wild and irrational hope often stirs inside him when Geoff gives him a cup and their hands touch for a fleeting moment. Coming here, talking and drinking and sharing the cold evenings has become a ritual, but each time, the warmth that spreads through Michael's body is not only caused by the alcohol. He wants to touch Geoff’s face even now before the first drop comes across his lips. He dares to hope that Geoff wants the same - but he can’t be certain.

All he knows is that he comes back to the same smoke-filled room night after night, and always, Geoff _smiles_ at him like they share some profound secret.

Tonight, they drink in silence for a bit before Geoff stops being distracted by the table next to them. After the loud-mouthed foreigners quiet down, Geoff speaks, drawing out the words like he’s far too tired. He looks tired, too, but he always does. “There’s something about your _face_ ,” he says.

Michael raises an eyebrow. “What?”

"Your face - I don’t know what it is, but you look kind of _pissed off_. More than usual."

“It’s nothing.”

Geoff catches Michael’s eyes over the rim of his cup. “Something’s bothering you.”

Michael sighs. “Bad omens. Or at least that’s what Gavin told me.”

“Do you really believe in that kind of stuff? I mean, _really?_ ”

“I don’t know. It might be bullshit.” _It might also not be._ The temples make it all seem so convincing. The fact that the bad omens have been consistent for two months now also helps. But he doesn’t want to wallow in self-pity.

Perhaps sensing this, Geoff abandons the topic. "…Want to come ‘round back and help me with some stuff? I have some oil and _garum_ I need to get in."

"Mhm." Michael empties the cup.

The spring air is not uncomfortably cool, even at night. Far away, mules make their way through the streets to deliver wares. The work is a simple, welcome distraction. Michael relishes in the feeling of smooth clay and the sound of liquid sloshing against the sides of the jugs as he hauls them inside. Geoff takes care of one amphora, but once he emerges from the building again, he pauses.

Arms folded and back against the wall, he watches as Michael lifts a crate. His glance makes Michael pause, muscles tensing before he lets go.

“Am I doing something wrong or what?”

“No, no…” Geoff runs his fingers through his hair. “It’s… It’s fine.”

Michael wipes the dust from his hands. He knows this particular expression of Geoff’s - it is the one he wears around customers when he struggles to keep his opinion to himself. “I don’t buy that. Spit it out.”

And Geoff looks away and Michael knows that he was right. He _knows_ Geoff, and this gives him a rush of sorts, a lightness spreading through him.

“I don’t know if I should say it,” Geoff mutters.

Michael feels his heart beat faster. “Come on. It’s me.”

Geoff looks away, but Michael is enthralled by how awkward he looks now, in the shadow of the alley. He can be so tall and old and experienced in his own house, in his own light, but in this moment there's something almost vulnerable about him. "…I like having you around Michael."

“Yeah, and…?”

"I mean... I really like it. I like _you_ , if you understand what I mean."

Michael just stands there, dumbfounded. Suddenly, there is nothing beyond this back alley, and all those people back in the tavern are only extras that can wait for as long as they need to. Suddenly he’s deaf to all the noises of the city at night. It’s hard to believe that his feelings are reciprocated. Frivolous prayers to Venus have been answered, though this is the softest, kindest kind of miracle he could imagine.

“…So,” Geoff continues, “I was kind of hoping it’d be mutual.”

“Fuck you,” Michael says, the words just a breath. A nervous smile forms on his face, but his joy is mostly in his voice. “Of course it’s fucking mutual.“

“Glad to know you still have your way with words.” Geoff is visibly relieved, arms falling to his sides. Even when Michael steps closer, he just yields his space and softens up his stance, eyes never once wavering.

“I started to get my hopes up when you started letting me drink for free,” Michael admits. “That’s a fucking long time to just… wait without knowing if we wanted the same _thing._ Now…"

"...What now? “

“I don’t know.” Michael shrugs – but he _does_ know that he prefers staying in the torchlight to going back inside where people will see them. Nobody has to know that they kiss this evening, Michael pressing Geoff up against a wall and feeling him smile as their lips meet.

A few weeks later, there is a name carved into that wall: Michael’s, etched for no real reason except boredom as he waits for Geoff to follow him through familiar streets to wherever the day takes them.

There are hours spent in the marketplace, just wandering together as Geoff selects wares to buy and Michael admires fruit and flower garlands, eating chickpeas and fried bread, licking oil from his fingers-

There are other days with hours spent at festivals, seeking each other out in the crowd where all bodies are pressed closely together, the air thick with the sweet scents -

There are days spent on long walks where Michael rants from one end of the city, glad to have someone who listens and matches his frustrations with their own stories of weird customers.

The very best hours are those spent on the second floor when the sun has just risen, waking together and not leaving bed for what feels like hours.

* * *

**II.**

_"Suns may set, and suns may rise again:_  
_but when our brief light has set,_  
_night is one long everlasting sleep._ _  
Give me a thousand kisses, a hundred more_..."

                  -Catullus, _V_

One bright, cool morning Michael takes a deep breath and steps through the temple gates.

Up ahead, Gavin stands in the middle of an empty courtyard, arms outstretched. His chest rises and falls in an even, slow rhythm as he watches the skies above. He often insists that there is nothing too strange about what he does - that an augur's work is a _science_. He divines through the patterns of the sky and the way the birds fly east and west, finding meaning in their species and cries at different times of day. He is no butcher at heart, so nobody could ever make a haruspex of him. He can't stomach the blood of bulls when their intestines are used to tell the future. In Michael’s opinion, Gavin’s knack for birds must be nature's way to compensate for both that and his intelligence.

Michael would not trust anyone else with his future.

He doesn't even start to doubt when Gavin frowns and starts stumbling over his words _again_. “Still no good omens,” he declares.

This time, it matters more than usually. Michael clenches his hands into fists.

"What are you going to do?" Gavin asks.

"Tell Geoff,” Michael says. “I should’ve done it when I first got the message.”

Gavin loosens his grip on his staff and closes the gap between them. When Michael turns to leave, Gavin follows with long strides. "I can come with."

"Don't you have duties or something?"

"I have _friends_ , too. It's not like anybody's gonna notice." He breathes deeply, probably inhaling too much dust as they leave the temple grounds and enter the busy streets. "Rome's a big city. It'll be alright. Nobody’s gonna notice."

“…Alright.” And it does help to have a friend come along. Michael doesn't need to think about where he's going - he feels as if retracing his own steps. He has walked this path countless times now, and he remembers even the way the air changes as they come down and away from the city centre. Sunlight makes him blink as he crosses broad squares, but it fades mercifully away in the side streets. Splinters of clay and rare glass clinks against stones and crunches under his feet.

"How are you doing, apart from that… problem?” Gavin asks. “Things settled in? Nice and clear?"

Michael rolls his eyes, weaving his way around a man and his mule. "Until _this_ happened, yeah they were. Me and Geoff… It’s been going well."

"You and him," Gavin says. There's something warm in his tone of voice. “You should hear him talking ‘bout you sometimes.”

They turn towards less reputable neighbourhoods, the noise of cramped houses spreading around them. At last, they approach the tavern. The door is closed and beyond it, the main room is empty: A sullen mood hangs around the place, like the building knows what bad news it will harbour before long.

Michael feels the unsaid words like a physical weight, a taste on his tongue that does not yield when he yells out a greeting. Geoff appears, making his way carefully down the narrow stairs. “’Morning,” he says, yawning as if for effect. “Nice to, uh, see both of you.”

Gavin lays a hand on Michael's shoulder in a gesture that ends up being more of a push than a show of solidarity. "Actually, I think I have other things I need to tend to. Can't stay around. Official business, you know."

"Official my ass," Geoff says, half laughing. "You wouldn't know Jupiter if he hit you with a lightning bolt where the sun don’t shine."

Gavin puffs out his chest. "Rude. Have some respect for the- “

“Gods have nothing to do with this,” Michael comments.

“It’s still rude. I was going to buy something for you too, but now Michael's the only one getting a pastry."

Geoff leans back against the bar desk. "Supporting my competition?"

"Food isn’t really your strong suit. Your baking’s all _soggy._ ”

As the tempo of their exchanges increase, Michael watches Geoff and Gavin fall into old patterns. They have had variants on this conversation before. Geoff looks to Michael for assistance, but receives none.

“...Yeah, I’m tempted to go with Gavin on this," Michael says.

In feigned defeat, Geoff reaches into a pocket and flips a coin towards Gavin. "There you go," he says.

Gavin makes a fist around the coin and turns on his heel. With a "Thanks, Geoffrey," he's off.

Leaving Michael there, alone.

He doesn’t know how to start the conversation, but luckily - or unluckily, he doesn’t know anymore - Geoff speaks first. “Hasn’t he been predicting something bad was going to happen for you for what, months, now? How’s that going?”

An awkward silence settles as Michael leans back on his heels, averting his eyes. “Well… About that…”

Geoff takes a step back, letting Michael come further into the dusty shade of the tavern's main room. The tables are empty save for a few unwashed mugs and an abandoned washcloth. It is not the first time Michael has been down here during the day, but each time he is surprised by how loud his footsteps sound where there is no other noise to drown them out. He walks to the bar - maybe just out of habit, or so he'll have something to lean on. He traces the rough edge of the desk, fingers splayed, and Geoff is right in front of him when he looks up.

"What is it?"

Michael has a bad taste in his mouth as he stammers his way into a sentence.  "I’m leaving soon. They need soldiers up north.”

“Why’d you-”

“It’s not exactly by fucking choice, alright? I didn’t _sign up_ for anything, but I’m a citizen and-

"And they need able bodies,” Geoff interrupts. “I hadn’t thought you’d get conscripted. I don’t know why.”

"Why _not_ me?" A strange mix of emotions twist inside Michael. There's love, deep and clear, but part of him is angry, too. Part of him has always been ever since he learned he’d be leaving. "Why not? I'm a young man and there's a war on. I’m strong enough. Someone has to go beat up the barbarians or whatever-the-fuck else comes south."

"It's just so..."

"Sudden?"

“No. Not really that.” Geoff reaches out with both hands, grabbing hold of Michael's tunic by his shoulders and pulling him in. The closeness feels desperate, like a moment embracing now can somehow make up for months apart later. Michael leans in and lets Geoff kiss him, feeling stubble against his cheek. "It feels unfair," Geoff says quietly. "There are a ton of other people who deserve being cold and miserable somewhere in the mountains way more than you do. Probably some who deserve - I don't know, a chance for _valor_ and _prestige_ way more, too. But you ought to be _here_."

" _Of course_ I fucking want to be here. But it… it is what it is."

"We could..." Geoff's grip on the cloth tightens. Michael can imagine the words that could follow - desperate plans to slip away from duties - plans that they both know Michael would never accept. He'll get angry, sure, but he'll get _through_. He’s no coward. And Michael believes that Geoff isn’t either, despite how he has seen him act around snakes or in the dead of night. Not in the grand scheme of things.

"You know I ought to go,” Michael says, voice low. “Hell, I think I might even be good at it. And it's not like it's forever. We’ll come back in the winter."

"But what if you don’t all come home whole?" Geoff draws out the last word, breath just by Michael's ear. "And what if there's a girl over there who’s better than the old man waiting back in Rome? What if you’ll be spending so many months away that- “

"And what if, and what if, and what if," Michael echoes. Before Geoff can reply, Michael kisses him and takes all the words away. He covers Geoff’s hands with his own and lets himself become dead weight, pulling Geoff ungracefully to the floor – which is where Michael wants them, entwined limbs and shared warmth as the floorboards creak under them. He does not even register the pain of hitting the ground.

He's got Geoff above him. Backlit by golden sunlight that sneaks around the shutters, the older man accepts that the time for words is past. His body speak for him as his mouth does nothing but place kisses along Michael's neck. The space between them grows steadily smaller, hands delving underneath the fabric of tunics.

Michael turns his head and sees a bottle lying on the floor not far away. A puddle of dark liquid has formed beneath it. Again this scent of wine that also clings to Geoff’s clothes and lies light on his breath. Michael hopes that just a bit of this air will stay in his body when he leaves. If he just fills his lungs with it now… He looks into Geoff's eyes and follows the curve of the man's back with his eager hands, intent on making the most of the time they have until Gavin returns, until he has to leave, until the omens turn out to be better or worse.

* * *

 

**III.**

_"Who but lovers and soldiers endure the chill of night,_  
_and blizzards interspersed with driving rain?_  "  
  
                 – Ovid, _Amories_

They sit in the dark, gathered around a fire that only reinforces the impression that the wilderness around them is vast and lonely: They are alone, miles from civilization. They have carried their weapons and the stakes for the palisade fence with them. By their feet, waterskins and dishes lie in the grass, ready to be packed back into marching packs. They have carried stories with them, too, about the cities they come from and rumors they’ve heard. Now they speak loud Latin to avoid hearing branches break in the woods and to refrain from wondering if there might be wolves.

"-It's absolutely true," Jeremy says. He crosses his arms, and the men in the semi-circle around him laugh. “What, you don’t believe me?”

"Why should we believe you’ve seen a _ghost_?” Michael says, leaning back.

Jeremy’s face has a red tint to it as he continues. "I swear it’s true! It’s not like it’s some complete _miracle_ out of nowhere. Turns out the guy hadn’t been buried, and he was _haunting_ the place, the owner said…"

Michael lets the heat of the campfire wash over his calloused hands. Never have the stars felt so close, like he could reach out and pluck them from the sky. Never have the trees been so many or so.... loud around him. The plants here are not cultivated for fruits or olives. They are all wild, unruly growths visible above the silhouettes of the tents, made of cracking, creaking bark and rustling leaves. There is a long silence where Michael just listens to that.  

Then one of the soldiers – Matt, who complained about having to cut his long, “barbaric” hair – raises his voice.  "...Is this when we should start comparing girls back home? Did the girl avoid you like disease after you brought her to a haunted house?"

“Nope,” Jeremy says, face turning redder - though that might just be the light of the fire. "She’s still into me. We’re both, actually, really… Really lucky like that. She said she’d wait for me, and I think she might be the one. I’ll… I’ll marry her.”

Matt nods in approval, eyebrows raised.

“Wow. She pretty?" Michael asks, just for the sake of adding to the conversation. "...Was she into that green hair you talked about?"

"Yes and yes," Jeremy replies, and Michael knows the infatuated smile on his face. He has probably worn it himself, too. "I could describe her the whole night, but I'm curious - how 'bout you?”

"Me?" Michael looks around at the other men who are just dark shapes around the fire. "Yeah, sure. I’ve got someone. No marriage plans, though."

“How’d you meet?” Jeremy asks.

“...A bar.”

"Sounds sleazy."

"That's what you think about when you look like you can't hear any of us?" Matt asks.

"Getting homesick?" Jeremy asks.

"Shut the fuck up," Michael says. He tries to come across as playful, but doesn’t really know if it works.  

"Sorry,” Jeremy begins, rising from his seat - “I didn't mean-"

"I know." Michael motions for Jeremy to relax.

He does, but only slowly, settling in next to Matt once more. “We’ve got to look out for each other,” he mutters.

Now it’s Michael’s turn to startle.  "…Wait a sec. I can't stay."

"Oh." Jeremy straightens his back. "Sure it wasn’t something I said?“

Michael shakes his head quickly, getting to his feet within seconds. “…I just remembered I’m _this_ close to not showing up for lookout duty”

“See you around, then."

Hands are raised in half-hearted farewells as Michael gathers his belongings. Leaving the fire makes the rest of the world seem darker. On his way to the fence, Michael passes men with strange accents in their rough voices and a commanding officer who barely notices him.

Finally, he finds his post.

Peering into the darkness, he waits until his eyes adjust. The cold that could not reach him at the campfire comes to him here, creeping into him like he has been submerged in cold water. The air rushes through the tree crowns, the branches and leaves only indistinct shapes above.

_"That's what you think about when you look like you can't hear any of us?"_

Michael _has_  been deaf to the world far too many times while marching. It is a habit - though he can’t tell whether it is a good or bad one - as he lets himself imagine Geoff walking at his side. If he just looks at the road, thinking of nothing but stone and sand, Geoff's voice can become very real to him.

Their conversations are lengthy, the metre following the rhythm of footsteps. And Geoff never marches like a legionnaire, but walks with his own languid pace that is still somehow enough to keep up. Michael prefers to imagine the kind of talks they could have in the evenings. He can skip past the drinks it would usually take to draw out a more philosophical side of Geoff and go straight to remembering the way he had talked when he just couldn't sleep, staring up at the ceiling, or while closing out the tavern in the small hours. He’d be all odd questions and little musings saved up during the day. Back in Rome, Geoff would expect no answers, only for Michael to listen and help him divide the clever from the stupid, packing the thoughts of the day into neat little boxes that do not need to be opened again as long as they have been held once, weighed and appreciated.

But this evening, Michael doesn’t have time to think for very long.

There's movement in the bushes.

 _Just the wind_ , he thinks, but his hand descends towards his sword nonetheless. The ridged hilt of the _gladius_ offers little comfort, however, as a deep growling sound echoes from behind the treeline.

Goosebumps form on Michael's arms. Something old rears inside him, an instinct that knows better than his conscious mind that there is danger. A mere bad feeling, however, is no reason to call for alarm. Michael weighs his options, taking a step further away from the camp without thinking about it, just to see a little better. There _is_ a shape moving out there, he realizes, coming rapidly closer-

Branches break and something drags through the undergrowth. Michael yells loudly for assistance as the bear approaches him, not even sure _what_ he says as he struggles to see the animal charging towards him. Yellow eyes shine with no intelligence. A pink mouth hangs open. The sound of its paws hitting the ground not far from Michael's own feet is thunderous to his adrenaline-fueled brain.

He no longer senses the sword as anything but an extension of his body when reflexes thrust it forward. The animal is close enough that nothing but this desperate struggle will keep its claws and teeth away. Breath hitching, he aims for the largest mass of fur-covered flesh he can find. The blade almost glances off the shoulder as the bear avoids the worst of the attack. No real damage done, it just becomes more enraged - if hunger drove it out here, anger keeps it circling Michael who hears ringing bells and loud voices from the camp behind him.

Help is still too far away.

He sees the bear come towards him again and throws all his weight right, losing his balance and ending up on the grass. Jaws open and close around empty air, the bear suddenly above him, one paw on his chest keeping him where its teeth can get to his throat. Michael emits an almost inhuman sound. No thoughts come while the seconds seem endlessly long. His muscles act of their own volition, abandoning the sword in favour of the dagger at his hip.

Claws dig into his chest, and Michael fears his ribs breaking under the weight of the paw. He throws his head to the side, seeing the sky as a smear of black, the world a haze of pain and fear and -

And a moment where he looks straight up into the eyes of the bear and feels joy.

The joy of being alive, heart still beating, feeling every inch of his body _because_ he is in danger - knowing that this is real, the realest thing he's ever experienced. He is alive.

As his body contorts, dissolving into spasming muscles and staggered breathing, he manages to close his hand around the hilt of the dagger. His knees bend, hardly hurting the bear that growls and emits a stench of earth and blood, but allowing him to move his arm.

Finally, using all the strength in his body, Michael draws his weapon and stabs it into the belly of the beast. As the inch-long claws dig ever deeper into his body, he grabs the hilt with both hands and draws a long red gash in the bear's body. He feels warmth spread over his stomach as hot, pungent blood oozes out.

The bear roars and moves off of him.

It happens so suddenly that Michael becomes dizzy from being able to breathe again, but he gets back on his feet all the same. Though his reflexes are slow, the animal is still reacting to the first cut. He charges for its throat and drives the blade in until he feels it hitting bone and jaw, until blood coats his hands.

He must look like a ghost now, he thinks, when the others find him. He stands still, weight resting on the body his dagger is buried in. He is a red silhouette in the dusk.

"Gods above," Jeremy mutters. "Look what he did."

Spots dance across Michael’s vision. He drops to his knees, pain echoing through his body like his commander’s voice through the clearing - "Let’s get him to safety, men."

Michael wakes, sleeps and wakes again. He dreams that the bear’s body has swallowed him, that he lies between liver and lungs staring into nothing but heavy blackness. He feels fur against his skin and something thick and warm in his mouth.

At last, he opens his eyes.

_Alive._

His heart beats faster. He realizes where he is – a tent, the canvas of which separates him from murmuring shadows on the other side – and that someone must have fed him soup and bandaged his wounds. His left arm is sore, but he frees the other from the blanket - and finds that it is no blanket at all. It is the bear's pelt, still smelling of moss and damp animal.

Michael sits up slowly. His chest is black and blue with bruises. Salves and herbs are plastered onto what he knows must be an open wound just below his collar-bone, stretching to the bottom of his armpit. He pulls the pelt with him when he stands up. Steady on his feet, he moves the tent canvas aside and steps barefooted out onto the down-trodden grass.

His commander walks towards him, escorted by two other soldiers. Michael recieves a nod and a look that appears to deem him fit for duty once more.

When he returns to his own tent, he notices how people stare.

* * *

  **IV.**

 _"Be wise, and mix the wine, since time is short: limit that far-reaching hope._  
_The envious moment is flying now, now, while we’re speaking:  
_ _Seize the day, place in the hours that come as little faith as you can."_

                 – Horace, _Odes_

Geoff finds himself listening in on the hushed conversations in the tavern, growing increasingly annoyed. Lovesick boys still make their way not to the girls they talk about, but to his tables. He half wants to give them a piece of his mind sometimes - of course, all he gives them is another plate or cup, a brief raised eyebrow if he can get away with it. Money talks, and these guests do, too.

“My love is like a statue _”_ , a youth says, pressing a piece of bread to his lips like it is the poor girl's hand _. “_ Like a statue, pale and beautiful, always lookin' like the world doesn't even touch her, like none of us are good enough. She's mine, though, I can tell from her eyes _...”_

 _Fuck statues,_ Geoff thinks. He'd like to tell them about Michael – about how being human together was the whole point of it all. Michael had snored or wiped his mouth with the back of his hand in a gesture that Geoff can still see so clearly, and that had been far better than any cool elegance he could have shown. People around him idealize the unyielding man, tough as stone and stoic, too, but Michael had been soft – more emotion than marble. The kind of person you could get drunk on.

Sighing, Geoff shakes his head and picks up a pair of dirty dishes and empty cups. He has not been drinking that much in these too-long summer months. He wants Michael to come back and find him clear-eyed and present, not feeling sorry for himself.

(He wants Michael to come back.)

Jack waves at him from across the room, and Geoff waves back. He has found that the light evenings are well spent with friends he might possibly have neglected a _little_ bit lately.

 

Once the last guests are gone, Geoff locks the door behind him and takes a long walk as Jack accompanies him. As they pass through wider streets, his patron Ryan joins them too.

Geoff has already tried every angle possible with Ryan, but though he _is_ an aristocrat, the man does not yet have enough influence beyond the city walls to affect Michael in any way. Otherwise Geoff would’ve given so much for a letter or a promise - maybe just a word.

In the shadow of Jupiter’s temple, Gavin stares up at a sky where silver clouds drift like veils in front of the stars. Once he notices the others, he falls into step. The building remains looming behind them, and Geoff wonders idly if the Gods ever decide to walk the halls when they are empty, looking over the statues and reading the inscriptions...

“I waited,” Gavin pouts, but Ryan merely shrugs.

“It’s still hot out. If it was cold or raining, it’d be another story.”

They wander aimlessly through the gardens as insects buzz around them. Geoff feels the truth of Ryan’s words on his skin, still sensitive from fading sunburns. All is arid and hot with little change from day to night.

The season of warfare appears to extend indefinitely.

Gavin whispers to Ryan, but in a manner so loud that he might as well have spared himself the effort.“Do you have anything for me?”

Ryan nods, and Geoff can just see a little bag changing hands in the dusk. He decides that he didn’t see this. The glance Ryan gives him over his shoulder says that this was the right thing to do.

“That should keep a rival out of office,” Ryan explains. “I think the omens will soon reveal that the Gods have found someone else much more qualified…”

“That ‘someone else’ being you, I suppose?” Geoff asks. “I hope it works out for the both of you.”

“Eh. It’s just something for something,” Ryan replies. “I pulled strings to get Gavin his position. He tells people that Zeus really likes me. I’m _convinced_ it will work out perfectly.”

“Where does it end?”

“What?”

“What’re you striving for? Higher office? Consulship...?” Geoff rolls his eyes. “Reinstating the monarchy?”

“Maybe,” Ryan says, a glint in his eyes visible even in the low light.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Geoff groans.

“Don’t you have ambition yourself?” Ryan asks. “Don’t you want to have money when Michael gets back?”

Geoff looks down - and yes, of course he wants more. What man in this place doesn’t? He is painfully aware that yes, sometimes he has not been able to resist thinking of his relationships with regulars as useful connections. Once or twice he has been deliberately eavesdropping on conversations. And Ryan must be aware of this too, and maybe Geoff has heard something useful... He has cultivated his reputation like others cultivate olives, and he could press the oil now if he was so inclined.

“Because,” Ryan says, “I’m very interested in the word on the street regarding a couple of subjects. Among other things.”

Geoff takes a deep breath of evening air and gives his answer.

* * *

**V.**

_"Iurant autem milites omnia se strenue facturos quae praeceperit imperator, numquam deserturos militiam nec mortem recusaturos pro Romana republica!"_

("The soldiers swear that they shall faithfully execute all their commands, that they shall never desert the service, and that they shall not seek to avoid death for the Roman republic!")

                 – Oath sworn by Roman soldiers.

Some say Michael has the heart of a bear, which is why he could defeat one. Others claim that he is blessed by the gods instead. The rumors are jokes at first, but soon Michael makes people take them seriously. As the grasses cease blooming red and the trees start to give fruit, Michael moves into the front lines each time they fight. He is the first to charge ahead, the first to smile as the battle breaks out.

Rome is far away and at the same time not distant enough. It still aches when he thinks too long about the sunlit streets and the voices of friends. He wonders if Gavin still wrings his hands when the crows fly east to west, and if he believes in the gods or just pretends to. He wonders if Geoff sleeps enough. If Ryan has anything to gain from this war in the greater game of the nobles, if everything will be the same once he gets back.

Homesickness spreads through camp like a plague on the best of days, but the thrill of the fight is a remedy of sorts. Michael is thankful for this relief. When he is surrounded by shining metal and the sweat, the battlefield is the only place that exists. 

 

Then, one morning, Michael exits his tent to see the other soldiers looking up. The oldest of them, a man with greying hair and eyes almost lost in the furrows of leather-like skin, points to something close to the treeline.

A single hawk soars west. It does not circle or dip in any other direction; it heads for its course without divergence. Michael wonders if this is a bad sign, but soon the cold sensation making its way down his spine convinces him that it must be.

Jet-black smoke rises from behind the trees.

Jeremy lays a hand on Michael’s shoulder. ”They’re close,” he says.

”Who?”

”The barbarians – chieftain included. It’s a small force, but still trouble.” Jeremy glances out towards the treeline. “You should go up front. Try to scare the shit out of ‘em.”

Michael feels a familiar bloodlust rising. He nods. There is something very satisfying about being sure that this is what he’s good at. This is what he _should_ be doing. ”How long until we get going?”

”Not long,” Jeremy says.  

“Good.”

“Wanna wait it out together?”

When Michael nods, Jeremy leads him away from the mass of people and towards a fallen log that has been made seating by a now-extinguished campfire. They sit side by side, the morning dew on the wood cold against Michael’s legs.

”I’ve been thinking…” Michael begins, taking note of Jeremy’s expectant expression. ”Do you think you could ever make this a career?”

”I don’t know. Depends on skill and…”

”Your girl?”

Jeremy exhales. ”We’re talking about a lot of years out here. I don’t know. I think you’re cut out for promotion, though.”

Michael picks up a piece of bark and starts twisting it between his fingers. ”Thanks.”

”We’ll see when we come back. And we might come all the way home soon, if we’re lucky. We’re winning this – they might not need as many men all of a sudden.”

”Maybe. Little J, master of optimism.”

They sit without talking for a while. Jeremy hums a song that Michael does not recognize and then leaves him be with a remark about how he should go get his stuff.

Michael stays put for a little while longer, listening to the silence before the figurative storm. Then he rises as if picked up by a gust of wind. His footsteps fall quicker and quicker, light on the warpath as he lets the other soldiers lead him to the front of their file.

They hardly speak at all while they go through the dense woods that their scavenging for firewood and materials has done little to thin out. Branches break beneath their boots and spear shafts scrape against shields. A woodpecker turns it head and stares straight at Michael before it goes back to drumming on the bark. 

The hill begins to slope gently downwards.

Below, a group of warriors are waiting on a plain that might someday be a good place for an outpost, or a juncture for roads the Romans will pave across these lands.

Michael draws blood. It happens quickly as a man charges towards him, face contorted in a battle cry. To avoid an axe coming down onto his neck, Michael thrusts his javelin forward until he feels flesh and bone collapse. He brings his fingertips to his face, drawing red lines like the barbarians’ war paint down his cheeks, and pulls his sword out.

The next man falls as easily as the first, and the next after that – the world is nothing but motion and unintelligible sounds. Beside him, an ally yells something about Mars. Before him, an elderly stranger falls to his knees. If he curses Michael, he does so in a language Michael does not understand, and he tries to move gods that were not willing to save his life.

Whatever their age, young or old, people tend to flinch or just… stop for a second when they see Michael coming. Blood drips from the frayed edges of the bearskin. He bares his teeth and roars, knowing full well the effect of his appearance. He throws himself into the fray, seeking out more, more-

A group forms around one man in particular. The chieftain of his tribe, a man broader and taller than all who surround him. Following the officer’s signal, Michael moves towards this part of the battlefield with his heart in his throat. When he charges, the chieftain looks towards him – that is enough distraction to let one of Michael’s countrymen stab at his legs, slicing along the muscles of his thigh. The man hardly lets out a sound, instead lounging forward on his good leg to involve Michael in something akin to a duel even as they are surrounded by people from both forces.

Michael dodges the first attack, strafing left, making eye contact for a terrifying second. There is no desperation in those blue eyes. Michael realizes that he and the chieftain share the same feeling of anger not directed at anything in particular, used only as fuel to do what must be done. Michael attempts to strike at the man’s exposed shoulder, but his sword only hits a shield. Dull pain reverberates up through his arm, and now _he_ is the one exposed – he barely avoids another advance.

As the chieftain straightens his back, he is the perfect picture of pride. Michael knows how _he’d_ feel in this situation, having taken control of the tide of the fight. He’d already be planning how to tear the bearskin off of the roman boy’s dead body, and that would make him distracted.

Michael feigns losing his balance, staggering. His opponent goes in for the kill – but instead of falling, Michael yells out and snatches a spear from Jeremy a few feet away, and with this tightly clenched he turns and drives it into the chieftain’s body.

Victory.

A heavy, wet sound of a last breath taken inches from Michael’s face.

A victory, but not a flawless one. A stab of pain spreads through Michael’s abdomen. He looks down as his comrades close in. For a moment, those other soldiers know better than him what transpired. Like the blue marks left by the bear were nothing but a painted target, an axe has buried itself almost to the hilt where those claws had threatened to be earlier. Michael entertains the thought that fate has decided to finish the bear’s job. That he is meant to die by a wound to his heart for some unfathomable reason.

SOmeone reaches for his arms and drags him through coarse grass. Stones and abandoned pieces of armor scrape against his body.

“How’d it look?” he asks, and the soldier carrying him doesn’t answer. He leaves Michael with his back against a rock, unable to move him any further as he is called back to the battle. Michael hopes for a medic, glancing around, eyes not really focusing on anything. He can see the battle itself still raging on, but red armour and eagle banners encroach steadily on earth-coloured masses.

He exhales, pain blooming in his chest.

In Rome, a cool breeze makes its way through the streets, liberating the people from the humidity of the late summer.

 

Black spots dance on the edges of Michael’s vision, and he fights to stay conscious. The grass is wet as his right hand trails through it, his left resting on the wound.His thoughts become a mantra: _Not like last time, not like last time_. This time he’ll stay with his senses and not wake up days later, dazed in some tent - if he wakes at all -

In Rome, a man leads a calf to the altar, but can’t stomach seeing it die.

Michael closes his eyes and believes for a moment that he is back on a straw mattress with Geoff’s hand resting on his chest. That the sun is rising outside.  

It is very bright, and colours come and fade on the inside of his eyelids.

 

Then there is just blackness.

 

In Rome, Geoff stands in Ryan’s garden and acts on a sudden impulse. Without knowing why, he tips his cup so that the red wine seeps into the ground, looking almost like spilled blood between the marigolds.

* * *

**VI.**

 

 _"Now, whether fortune smiles or lowers,  
_ _One risk, one safety shall be ours."_

                 -Virgil, _The Aeneid_

The drums beat like a headache to Geoff who lets himself be swallowed by the mass of people anyway. They are all waiting for a general and his troops to return wearily to the city they have defended. It won’t be one of the great triumphs given to truly great conquers. Even so, had every facade been covered in flowers and had there been an expectation of slaves and silver being led in procession through the streets, Geoff could not have found it more important. This is Michael coming home, or so Ryan had assured him, telling him how Michael’s group would return at this time, with this general, like this and this.

Gavin has given his assurances, too. The gods have given good omens. The doors to the temple of Janus are still wide open but may soon shut.

 _You’d be a fool to believe that,_ Geoff thinks.

He feels like he is made of parchment. He could crumble with just a word or show the bright ink of his emotions, bleeding with energy or joy or fear. He usually feels so comfortable in his new clothes, but now he wishes more than anything to blend into the shadows and become one with the city’s palette of browns and greys.

He steps out from a side street and onto a much larger square where the sun makes the cobblestone look like precious ore. There are people everywhere, crowded by the walls, dwarfed by the statues.

Somewhere, a trumpet sounds.

Voices rise to a crescendo, but that happens many times a day. Animals groan and the false notes of a bawdy song ring out, but that could happen for many reasons.

Then, at last, they appear. A wildfire of banners and brown skin and armour that once gleamed. More people than Geoff had thought there would be, which at once makes him happy and afraid. If there are this many people, Michael must be among them, but how does one find a single man amidst such a crowd?

Geoff moves closer, eyes darting from one face to another, finding the elated among the young men and the cheery among the old, the sullen in-between and those silent, shut expressions of the wounded.

The throng of people begin to pass him by. Geoff’s hands open and close in vague grasping motions, like he’s almost ready to reach out, grab hold of a cape or toga and pull aside anyone standing between him and control of the situation. The marching continues relentlessly. There is a tide in this river of people that Geoff is powerless to stand against.

The procession is almost past him, now.

Then – a flash of something he recognizes. In the middle of the crowd, a man stands still. For a moment, Geoff only sees all the differences. Added muscle, loss of fat, something new in those eyes of his – but it is still Michael.

The distance between them feels unreal as Geoff crosses it despite all the people between them. He hears curses and threats as he bumps into the men, but he does not remember them. Michael waits below a statue shining with blue and gold, and he himself is all red and black, a bear pelt draped over his shoulders.

Geoff stops himself a couple of steps away.

Michael does not approach him. He just looks at his lover, those pink lips shaping into a sad smile. He has no sword. Under the black fur, Geoff can see white bandages that reach across his chest like fingers of a pale hand seeking to pull him away.

“Michael?”

No response.

Geoff comes closer. He can see the sweat on Michael’s brow now, the way it pearls and runs down the side of his nose. Freckles dot his cheeks, joined by mosquito bites and plain bruises on his neck.

Michael looks into Geoff’s eyes, a world of weariness between them. Attrition and attainment, war and worries and now –

“Is it really you, Michael?”

And Michael appears to him like a mute spirit when he stretches out his hands and lets Geoff embrace him. His blood runs warm, but his fingers dig into Geoff’s sides desperately like he’s clinging to life itself.

Geoff buries his face in Michael’s hair and imagines him unburied on some faraway battlefield. A soul wandering a grey realm beneath the ground.

“Are you… really here?” he asks.

“Yes. Yes, Geoff! Fuck, I’m happy to see you. This all just... ” Michael says. “It feels kind of… unreal.”

Geoff remembers that they’re in public, in the middle of the street, and he lets go as slowly as he can. “Are you drunk?”

“Are you?”

“No.”

Michael raises his eyebrows. “Maybe you’re dreaming, then.”

“Don’t do that,” Geoff sighs – “Just let me be glad you’re back.”

A group of soldiers – some of the last, raising bottles to the sky as they go – point at Michael and drink to him, it seems. “Mogar!” Again and again, they chant that name as they head further down the street.

“Is that… you they’re cheering for?” Geoff asks.

Michael pulls at the pelt. “Absolutely. Taking down one of these _and_ a couple of important people - singlehandedly - makes them come up with more than a few nicknames.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Geoff suggests. It is easier to say that than to state how much Michael has changed. How much bigger he seems in armor and fur, shaped by a society that rests on shadows and gutters that have become so well known to Geoff. Even his name has changed. As he pulls away, Michael takes Geoff’s hand. It feels like they don’t touch the cobblestone when they search for some dark corner where they are finally free to embrace.

Geoff laughs with relief, a small part of him wondering if laughter is appropriate, but a bigger part not caring at all. “Look at you. How are you even _alive_ right now? You killed a _what_ \- alone?”

Michael’s fingers hook themselves into the fabric of Geoff’s toga. “I might have died.” He gives a wry smile. “I won’t lie to you, I mean I got - I got this - “ he gestures to the bandages - “and it was all dark and cold for a while. Maybe I’ve seen Hades.”

“Maybe?” Geoff scoffs. “Just a quick trip to the realm of the dead and back?”

“I just remember… Maybe I opened my eyes real quick when they carried me back to safety, but I think I remember _birds_ leading me somewhere. Your voice, and - “

“It’s okay.” Geoff does not really know what to do with the man in his arms. What Michael says sounds disjointed and _off_ , but of course it is probably just the exhaustion speaking. “All that matters is that you’re here.”

“’Course I am. I _ought_ to be here, remember?”

Geoff places a kiss on Michael’s cheek, taking in the scent of the road to Rome: dust and wine, dried blood, dew. “Could you even recognize me?”

“Your awful face’s still the same, even if you’re dressing fancy now.”

“You look awful, too,” Geoff teases.

“Shut up, _please_ ,” Michael says. “I’m-”

“Tired?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. Take me back to your place, ‘cause I need a drink. I need a real _bed_.” He pauses for a moment. “ _Your_ bed.”

“Fine,” Geoff says. “You’ll find I’ve made some improvements.”

“You will find that my standards are lowered,” Michael replies. He nudges Geoff forward, and the street curves on in front of them.

Geoff is already mapping the route in his mind. He’ll lead Michael through these streets until they are familiar once more and tell him about all the things that happened while he was gone. They can rediscover the city together.

He takes Michael’s hand and finds that this, at least, is unchanged: It feels as wonderful now as it did months and months ago. Finally, he says the words he knows Michael must have longed to hear.

“Let’s go home.”


End file.
